


An Uncertain Arabesque

by Mhalachai



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, in any universe they find each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 18:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11973306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mhalachai/pseuds/Mhalachai
Summary: Yuuri never went to the banquet. Viktor never looked into the eyes of a beautiful, sloshed Japanese figure skater, never had the spark brought back into his life with the idea of coaching, and of love.Viktor never saw the gash in the ice, not in the last minute of his free program at Russian Nationals, and couldn’t prevent his blade from catching in the depression, sending him to the ice with a broken knee and a ruined skating career.Viktor never saw any of it coming.





	An Uncertain Arabesque

 

> "You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming."
> 
> \- Pablo Neruda

* * *

Yuuri never went to the banquet. Viktor never looked into the eyes of a beautiful, sloshed Japanese figure skater, never had the spark brought back into his life with the idea of coaching, and of love.

Viktor never saw the gash in the ice, not in the last minute of his free program at Russian Nationals, and couldn't prevent his blade from catching in the depression, sending him to the ice with a broken knee and a ruined skating career.

After months of surgeries and rehabilitation, Viktor couldn't find any purpose left in his life... until young Yuri Plisetsky, absolutely _wild_ with rage that his skating idol (whose name Viktor never quite got) had retired, flung out at Viktor that maybe he should just go bury himself in some backwater Japanese town like Hasetsu if he thought his career was over.

So Viktor, injured and grieving for the loss of his career, didn't throw out Yuri's advice, but instead looked for a tiny place in Japan called Hasetsu where no one ever went and ended up reserving a room at a nice little inn called Yu-topia Katsuki. Once he arrived, he didn't understand why everyone there was so sympathetic to him, or why the inn owners' daughter Mari kept staring at him so oddly.

At first, he stayed in his room when he wasn't in the hot springs or sitting out back looking out at the ocean. It was only because Makkachin needed more exercise that Viktor found himself hobbling out slowly into the town. He learned enough shaky Japanese to catch rides with some of the delivery trucks who stopped by Yu-topia, and if his knee had rendered his body useless, at least his brain was starting to wake up from the fog of pain and drugs and regret.

Hasetsu was quiet, and no one there wanted anything from Viktor. He stayed. Days turned into weeks. The branches of the cherry trees grew green with new leaves; the buds swelled full to bursting in a soft pink wave across the country-side. Viktor spent hours out behind the inn, looking out over Hasetsu and the bay, just watching the world around him.

He didn't understand why, in such a quiet place, he felt like he was coming back to life.

* * *

He heard the rumours that the son of the inn was coming back from university. One day, there was a bustle of noise and action downstairs, but Viktor stayed out of the way, brushing Makkachin as was their routine before Viktor went outside for his daily limp.

When Viktor made it downstairs, everyone was elsewhere. He took his crutches down to the main road, to the small market where he bought little candies to eat after his walk. He only meant to go as far as the bridge, but something about that day made him keep moving. Maybe it was the idea that the Katuskis' son was home, and how Viktor had never had any "home" to go to. Maybe it was the idea that summer was coming, and for the first time in years Viktor didn't have programs to choreograph or costumes to create for the next season.

Or maybe it was just how excited Makkachin was to be out in the spring sunshine.

He stopped at the bridge for a while, looking out at the bay. People moved around behind him, cars and bicycles and someone jogging, solid footsteps on the ground growing loud then fading away. Viktor breathed slowly as he patted Makkachin's side. "That's not me, any more. No more running. No more anything."

Makkachin, good dog that he was, had no time for Viktor's self-pity. He just nosed at Viktor's good knee, and off they went.

The walk was hard. After too long, Viktor washed up in a part of the town he had never been to before. He wasn't sure of any of the Japanese signs, but some of the buildings had English on them. He walked, slowly now, until he came upon a building that he had never seen before, yet it drew him irresistibly.

 _Ice Castle_ skating rink.

Viktor wanted to turn around. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to throw his crutches away and scream up at the sky.

He kept walking.

The doors opened onto an empty lobby. He should have turned around and left, not stayed to torture himself with the sight of the ice he would never have again.

But there was someone out on the rink; Viktor could hear the siren song of blades against the ice.

Makkachin quiet at his side, Viktor limped towards the rink.

The lights in the arena were half-off, throwing strange patterns on the ice as a man moved in and out of shadow. The only sound was the scrape of blades over the ice as the man skated.

And oh, could he _skate_.

Viktor's heart was in his throat as this man, all elegant lines and powerful limbs, flung himself over the ice, effortlessly defying gravity with perfect triple axles, quad toe loops. He broke into a step sequence that would have made Yakov weep, glided into spins almost too fast for any human.

And all in silence.

Viktor stood in shadow, gripping his crutches so hard that it hurt. It wasn't _fair_. He came to Hasetsu to get away from figure skating and the reminders of everything that he lost through one moment's misstep. And now, here in his place of escape, he had found a man more at home on the ice than Viktor had ever been in over twenty years.

He wanted to turn around. He wanted to throw up.

He stayed where he was.

With one last spin, the man straightened out into a glide to the centre of the ice. He turned to face the side of the rink, where the judges would be in competition, and he assumed a pose that Viktor knew in his very bones.

It was the opening stance for Viktor's free program, _Stammi vicino_. It was the last thing Viktor had ever skated, ever _would_ skate.

And this man, already breathing hard from his exertion, moved effortlessly into the opening steps.

Viktor couldn't move. There was no sound in the arena except for the man's breathing, the scratch of his skates over the ice as he flung himself into a move-perfect interpretation of _Stammi vicino._ Viktor tasted blood on the back of his tongue as the man skated with a passion that Viktor himself could never master in this piece.

This man skated Viktor's world-record-breaking piece better than Viktor could ever dream of.

The only difference was that he swapped out the quads for triples, even the toe loop, which Viktor had seen him master only minutes before. But he was better than Viktor had imagined

With one last flurry of movement, the man struck the end pose. The only sound was the man's harsh breathing as he slowly lowered his arm. Now, with the effort behind him, he trembled.

He wasn't the only one. Viktor was also shaking, but his reaction came from a different kind of emotion.

Rage.

How _dare_ this man appear in Viktor's life and skate like that, after Viktor had finally found some level of peace at the loss of skating? And to do it with Viktor's own piece, his choreography, his _vision_ , it was almost as if this man dropped in from heaven to laugh in Viktor's face with how _irrelevant_ he was.

His entire body vibrating with fury, Viktor took one step forward into the light. His crutch hit a bench with a crack that echoed in the rink. The man on the ice whirled around, squinting in the direction of the door. "Hello?" he called in Japanese, then added a string of words Viktor couldn't catch.

Viktor opened his mouth to reply, but his anger and pain pressed on down his tongue, and he stumbled back.

The man on the ice said more Japanese words as he skated towards the boards. He picked something up, lifted it towards his face. Glasses.

Suddenly, Viktor had to get away. If this man skated Viktor's performance, then he must know who Viktor was, and the last thing Viktor needed was pity from someone who understood Viktor's art better than Viktor.

Quickly, Viktor turned and walks back out the way he came, Makkachin on his heels. There was a woman out in the front now, young, with long hair in a ponytail, but Viktor just kept walking. He couldn't stop. His knee ached and he thought he might vomit.

He had to keep going.

He walked until he couldn't walk anymore, when even with the crutches his knee was a blaze of pain. He sat down at the side of the road and wished he had never come to this small town, wished he had never listened to little Yuri. He should have stayed in St. Petersburg, even if there was nothing for him there.

After all, if some anonymous man in a nowhere town in Japan could skate Viktor's programs better than Viktor could have dreamed, what was there for him anywhere?

Viktor rubbed his thigh above his wounded knee. Makkachin put his chin on Viktor's other leg and stared up at Viktor with dark eyes.

"Makka, my good friend," Viktor said quietly as he smoothed the fur back from Makkachin's eyes. "Why am I here? What did I think was going to happen?"

Makkachin let out a soft boof, then sat up to lick Viktor's face.

"He was so good," Viktor went on. "Oh, Makkachin, how was he so _good_?"

The man had been so very amazing on the ice. That sort of effortless artistry ease spoke of years, even decades of practice. He must have been skating for a long time, and if he was that good, he couldn't have been a mere hobbyist. The man must compete, at least at the national level.

Viktor didn't know anything about Japan's male skaters, had only ever brushed up against the one at the last Grand Prix Final. Viktor hadn't seen the man's free skate, as he had been preparing for his own, but Chris had later told Viktor how it had been one of the worst performances he had ever seen at the senior level, which had been very strange in a skater like…

Like…

Viktor strained to think of the man's name. It had been that skater whom little Yuri so idolized. But try as he might, Viktor couldn't think of the man's name, could only gather an impression from after the free program of a lithe young man in a black tracksuit and blue glasses, turning away from Viktor.

But it couldn't be him, here. There was no reason for Japan's finest male figure skater to be skating to Viktor's programs in a deserted ice rink in a tiny sea-side Japanese town.

Makkachin licked Viktor's ear, then lay down with his head on Viktor's good leg. This was enough to pull Viktor out of his own thoughts and remind him of the situation at hand. He was alone in a country where he didn't speak the language, he had no idea where he was, and his leg hurt too badly for him to try to walk back to the inn.

"Makkachin," Viktor said. "I think we might be in trouble."

Makkachin whuffed.

Viktor looked up at the sky, where the sun shone bright in the cloudless sky. If he thought rationally about his situation, it wasn't as dire as he had told the dog. There were really only two directions to go in Hasetsu – towards the hills, or towards the water. If Viktor could find his way back to the sea, he knew how to get back to Yu-topia.

"I will rest my knee for a while," Viktor told Makkachin. "Then we go back to Yu-topia and neither of us will tell my doctors what an idiot I am."

Makkachin blinked at Viktor.

"I knew I could depend on you, old friend."

Just as Viktor was preparing himself to wait, a familiar blue truck trundled down the road, slowing to a stop in front of Viktor. The window rolled down, and an equally familiar face peered out. "You go walk?" old Mr. Sato asked in English.

"It's a long story," Viktor replied in the same language, even though he and Mr. Sato had exhausted their mutual vocabulary on the second day of their acquaintance as Viktor watched Mr. Sato unload a delivery of beer at the inn. "Are you going past Yu-topia?"

"Ah! Yu-topia!" said Mr. Sato, and beckoned to Viktor. Viktor climbed to his feet without jarring his knee too badly, then directed Makkachin into the back of the truck. Once the dog was stowed safely between some boxes, Viktor awkwardly climbed into the front seat. "Yu-topia!" Mr. Sato said again, then launched into a stream of Japanese conversation all the way back to the inn. Viktor shared his candies with the driver, and tried not to think about the man at the rink skating _Stammi vicino._

Mari Katsuki was sweeping the driveway when Mr. Sato's truck puttered to a stop beside the inn. Mari paused in her task to look skeptically at Viktor. "I didn't think someone as tall as you could fit in a car that small," she said in English as Viktor folded himself down to the pavement.

"You should see the first car I bought when I was sixteen," Viktor replied, steadying his crutches on the ground. "I was inches shorter than this and still my knees were up around my ears."

Mr. Sato came around to let Makkachin out of the back. The dog hopped down, gave Mr. Sato's shoes a good lick, then meandered over to Mari for a head-scratch.

"Thank you for your help," Viktor said to Mr. Sato in slow Japanese, and bowed as best he could with crutches.

"No problem!" Mr. Sato said in English. He slapped Viktor on the back, said something to Mari in Japanese, then got back in his truck and backed it out into the road.

"What did he say?" Viktor asked once the truck had driven away.

"He said he found you on the side of the road and maybe you should get a little scooter so you don't fall over so much." Mari scratched Makkachin's head again, then resumed her broom. "You should go inside, my mom will make you some tea."

"Thank you," Viktor murmured. He hobbled towards the front door, Makkachin trotting along at his heels. Inside, the eating area was quiet, with a couple of old men dressed in the inn's green robes reading newspapers and drinking tea. Viktor nodded at them as he made his way over to the entrance to the kitchen.

Mrs. Katsuki looked up when Viktor stopped in the doorway. "Hello," Viktor said. "Sorry to bother you. I was wondering if I could have some tea."

Mrs. Katsuki stood immediately. "Yes, tea," she said. "And lunch, you were gone a long time."

Viktor winced. It was too gentle to be a rebuke, but he felt the weight of her words the same. "I went too far," he said. "Not yet ready."

Mrs. Katsuki turned a critical eye on Viktor. He didn't know what she saw, but her expression changed. "Come with me," she said, setting down the tea pot in her hand. "You go upstairs. Rest. You are still healing."

Viktor didn't exactly have a say in the matter, as Mrs. Katsuki's hand was on his back and she was gently but inexorably herding him in the direction of the stairs to his room. "I will be fine," Viktor said, even though he knew it was a lie.

"Heal first," she insisted. "One stair, then two."

He had come a long way since he had first arrived at Yu-topia, but it was still a slow process for Viktor to climb the stairs to the second floor, Mrs. Katsuki behind him in case he lost his footing. But he didn't trip or take a spill, and soon Viktor was settling down on the bed in the old banquet hall turned into a bedroom for a paying guest.

"Better." Mrs. Katsuki took Viktor's crutches, put them within reach, then pulled over a low table. "You rest, and be better."

"Thank you," Viktor said. He watched Mrs. Katsuki move around the room, straightening things, patting Makkachin once the dog had settled onto the bed, adjusting the folded robe and towels ready for Viktor's next trip into the hot springs. She and her family had been so kind to Viktor since he arrived, and as the last hot springs inn in town, they usually heard all the news in town before anyone else. Maybe she could help. He took a breath. "Mrs. Katsuki?"

She turned to him, absently folding one last cloth.

"Is… is there another figure skater in Hasetsu?"

He had meant anyone other than himself; a slip-up he still made. Mrs. Katsuki shook her head.

"No, not other, only my Yuuri." Mrs. Katsuki put the cloth back in place on top of the towels. "He is home today, gone five years. He graduated university," she put in, radiating with pride. "No. No other skaters, no other dancers. Hasetsu is small."

"Oh." Viktor didn't know what to think.

"I will make tea, send it to you." And with that, Mrs. Katsuki left the room.

Viktor fumbled his phone out of his pocket. Could the skater at the rink have been the Katsuki boy?

Carefully, Viktor typed the name into his phone, _Yuri Katsuki_ , and hit enter. He nearly dropped his phone when the first images loaded.

It was the skater from the Grand Prix Final.

Viktor's stomach sank as he flipped through the search results. Most of the headlines talked about Yuuri Katsuki's last place finish at the Grand Prix Final, but a more recent one speculated about him being a no-show at Worlds. The word _retirement_ drifted over the page like a stain.

Viktor tossed his phone on the bed. He was angry again, but for very different reasons than before. How _dare_ a skater as gifted as Yuuri Katsuki retire when he could skate like that? Viktor had nearly killed himself putting together _Stammi vicino_ , and Yuuri Katsuki skated it perfectly after a long and grueling workout on the ice.

No one with the stamina and artistry Yuuri Katsuki demonstrated on the ice rink that day had any _right_ to retire, not when there was so much skating left in the world.

Viktor couldn't allow it. He would talk to the Katsukis, maybe. Or he could talk to Yakov to see if there was a figure skating coach who might want to spend the summer in Hasetsu to prepare Yuuri for the Grand Prix and that year's competitions. With Viktor out of action, Chris was the obvious top contender, but that kid Otabek from Kazakhstan had done surprisingly well the previous year, and Yuri Plietsky's senior debut promised to be interesting.

There was something in the back of Viktor's head about some Canadian, but he brushed it aside. Obviously he was not a real threat if he hadn't registered on Viktor's radar.

Viktor sat up. That was what he would do. He might have been forcibly ripped from competitive skating by a broken knee, but he could not stand by and let someone who could move like Yuuri Katsuki leave skating behind.

He should call Yakov. He should text Chris. He should do _something_ , so when he went downstairs and properly met this Yuuri Katsuki, he could stand up and say…

Say what?

Viktor rubbed his leg. He should get some ice for his knee before he tried to figure out what to say to Yuuri Katsuki. Maybe he should put together the words in Russian, then translate them to English. Yuuri spoke English, yes? His sister and parents were conversant, and English was the _de facto_ language of figure skating. So, Viktor decide, he would say to Yuuri Katsuki, in English, that he was a good skater and he should lay to rest any ideas of retirement.

Soft footsteps in the hall caught Viktor's attention. He perked up for reasons beyond the tea Mrs. Katsuki had promised. He could ask her if Yuuri still had a coach or if he needed a new one. That would be a good first step. Straightening his back, Viktor waited for Mrs. Katsuki to appear in the open doorway.

She didn't.

Her son did instead.

Yuuri Katsuki, wearing the same clothes from the rink, soaked with sweat, his hair spiked up from his head, stood in Viktor's doorway holding a tray. Viktor stared at the young man, words knocked out of his mouth by the realization of a very important fact that he had previously missed.

Yuuri Katsuki was _beautiful_.

Viktor swallowed. This was it, here, the moment he wanted. The moment to tell Yuuri that he should keep skating.

Even as Viktor tried to find the words in English, Yuuri blinked, took a step back, blinked again, then very carefully knelt down to set the tray on the ground outside Viktor's door and walked away.

Viktor's heart sank. Yuuri must have seen Viktor at the rink. He must have been irritated, to be observed while he skated.

Viktor took a breath. No matter. He would apologize, explain how he had not expected to see someone skate _Stammi vicino_ in the middle of Saga Prefecture, and then tell Yuuri he must keep skating.

Before Viktor could pick up his crutches to go after Yuuri, he heard a female voice speaking Japanese in the distance. Mari, rather than her mother. The voice got louder, as if it was approaching the bottom of the stairs, then a responding tenor plea.

Then feet, running, and Yuuri skidded into Viktor's door. He caught himself, straightened, and gaped at Viktor.

"You… It's really you," he panted. "Why? You… What?"

Makkachin barked at this eloquent speech. Yuuri's eyes never left Viktor.

"How are you _here_?" he squeaked.

Viktor took another breath. This was it. The psychological moment. He took up one crutch and pulled himself to his feet. "Hello," he said. "I am Viktor Nikiforov."

Yuuri boggled like a stunned fish. "I know who you are," he said, his English coated with an American accent. "I've been watching you skate since I was twelve years old." He gaped some more, then blinked, looked down at Viktor's knee, and blinked harder. "Yuu-chan said someone who looked like you was at the rink, I saw someone watching me skate but I didn't have my glasses on, I never thought… how could it be _you_?"

"Ah," Viktor said, wincing. This wasn't going at all like he wanted. "Yes. It was I who watched you skate."

Yuuri froze. "You saw me skate your program," he managed. He had gone so pale that Viktor worried he might fall over. "It was the last program… your last program where you… where you… and you saw me skating it!"

"I did." Viktor held his crutch tight with his left hand. He had to be honest here, with himself, but also with this shaking, beautiful wreck of a young man. "It was wonderful."

Yuuri's mouth fell open.

"But really," Viktor went on, "You need more quads in your program if you want to get on the podium this year. A quad salchow, at the very least."

Yuuri blinked. "I, but… no." Now a flush was rising in his cheeks. Viktor was fascinated; he could stare at Yuuri Katsuki's face all day long. "I'm not… Not the podium. I'm leaving skating. I'm done."

The words fell into the room like a pebble into a still pond. As the ripples floated outwards, washing over Viktor, he suddenly understood what he had to do. He understood where all of his thoughts of that afternoon had been leading.

He didn't want just anyone to coach Yuuri; _he_ needed to guide this young skater to his true potential, to take that raw energy and grace and polish him, to show the skating world what a true gem Yuuri was.

He _needed_ to be Yuuri's coach.

"Leaving skating?" Viktor asked, standing tall. He braced himself on his good leg, turned a quarter point, and extended his right hand dramatically. "How can you think of leaving skating now, Yuuri Katsuki, when I am to be your new coach?"

It was meant to be a stunning declaration – Viktor Nikiforov's triumphant return to the skating world. Instead, Yuuri swayed alarmingly, making Viktor reach out for him, just as Makkachin lost patience and bounded over to the food tray for his goodies. Yuuri tripped sideways into Viktor. He felt himself lose balance and he braced himself for impact on his bad knee, but instead he found himself cradled in strong arms, Yuuri's face only inches from his own.

"I…" Yuuri breathed.

Viktor stared. Yuuri was sweaty, exhausted, a nervous wreck, and as they stood there, Viktor held safely in the man's arms, all he could think was that he didn't want to be anywhere else, ever again.

"Say yes," Viktor whispered. "Let me be your coach."

Yuuri's eyes were wide as he carefully straightened up, bringing Viktor with him. They stood like that for a long moment, Yuuri's arms still around Viktor's back, Viktor's hands resting on Yuuri's shoulders.

Then Yuuri jumped back. "Your knee! Is your knee okay?" he demanded. "I saw your fall—I mean, I was watching the simulcast of your nationals, I'd just bombed out of my own, and you fell so bad—" Yuuri broke off, breathing hard. "How can you want to coach me when you'll never skate again?"

That was an excellent question, one that Viktor had been trying to avoid in his own mind. He put on a half-false smile and did what he did best when faced in uncomfortable truths – pretend everything was fine. "I think, to me, the only thing worse than sitting next to the ice and not skate, is to never go near the ice again."

There was a long moment of silence. Then, unfathomably, Yuuri nodded. "I said I was retiring, back in Detroit, but I can't stay away from the ice."

Viktor lifted his chin. "Good," he declared. "There aren't enough skaters in the world like you."

Yuuri's brow crinkled in the most adorable way. "But I'm nothing, compared to you," he blurted out. "I fall apart and flub my jumps and embarrass everyone around me."

Now that Viktor had decided to be Yuuri's coach, he should probably do something to build his skater's self-esteem. It wasn't something Yakov had ever had to do for him or Georgi or little Yuri, but Viktor had seen other coaches be supportive. He could make it work. "Do you normally skate like you did at the Grand Prix Final free skate?"

Yuuri flinched as if he had been slapped. His gaze fell to Makkachin, who was busy licking clean the plate that had once held Viktor's lunch. "My dog died the night before the free skate," Yuuri said, almost too quiet to hear. "I hadn't slept in almost forty hours and all I could think about was how I…" Yuuri swallowed hard. "I would never get to say goodbye."

Viktor opened his mouth, but for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to say.

Yuuri knelt down. Makkachin, finished with Viktor's lunch, let Yuuri pat his head with a self-satisfied air. "I'd been working my entire life to skate on the same ice as you," Yuuri said, still quiet. "Only when I got there it was a disaster."

Viktor looked around. One crutch was on the ground, the other by the bed. If he tried to kneel down beside Makkachin, he would probably never be able to get up again. With a sigh, he limped back to the bed. "If Makkachin…" he began. "If something happened to Makkachin, I don't know if I'd have been able to even get on the ice."

"I had to," Yuuri said, still looking at Makkachin. "I had to skate. I had to show everyone that I wasn't weak."

Viktor marvelled. The death of an obviously beloved pet, no sleep for forty hours, and Yuuri thought that people would think him _weak_ if he hadn't finished the competition?

What a man was this Yuuri Katsuki?

"Sit with me," Viktor said. Yuuri looked up, eyes owlishly wide behind his glasses. "Yuuri. I cannot get on the floor, so sit with me."

Yuuri blinked.

"Please?"

Yuuri rose and tentatively slipped across the room. He sat as far away from Viktor on the bed as he could. Makkachin, sensing an opportunity, jumped up onto the covers between them and laid his head on Yuuri's leg.

Viktor smiled. "Makka thinks he can trick you into scratches," he said as he patted Makkachin's flank. "Such a dog."

Yuuri carefully scratched behind Makkachin's ears. "No tricks," Yuuri said fondly. "I like him."

"He is a good dog." Viktor let Yuuri pamper Makkachin for a few minutes. When he thought that Yuuri was calmer, he said, "What I saw today, on the ice."

Yuuri flushed, but he didn't run away, so Viktor figured he was making progress.

"You made music with your body." Viktor had pitched his voice low yet steady, hoping he sounded professional and supportive, like a coach should. "You moved over the ice like a dancer. If you want to keep skating, Yuuri, I can help you reach as high as the stars in the sky."

Yuuri's fingers slowed as he looked up at Viktor. Viktor watched, fascinated, as Yuuri ran his tongue over his lower lip. "I don't want to reach the stars in the sky," Yuuri said, his eyes steady on Viktor. "I want to reach the ones that are closer."

Viktor sat, waiting for more. The anticipation was almost enough to make him forget the pain in his knee.

"Viktor, I—"

"Yuuri!"

Yuuri jumped as his mother appeared in the doorway, and Viktor sighed. The moment was gone.

Mrs. Katsuki said something in rapid Japanese as she gathered the tray from the floor. Yuuri responded in kind, slipped out from under Makkachin. Mrs. Katsuki gave her son a grave look, said a few more words, then shook her head and left, carrying the tray.

"What did she say?" Viktor asked when Yuuri just stood there, staring at the empty doorway.

"I told her you're going to be my new coach," Yuuri said in a daze. "And she said of course you are, why else would you be in Hasetsu?"

Viktor smiled. "So you'll let me be your coach?" he asked, wondering at the buzzing of excitement in his chest.

"Yes." Yuuri blinked, then turned around. "I… yes?" He still looked dazed. "You. My coach. Um. What happens now?"

Viktor reached for his other crutch to pull himself to his feet. "Now, I give you my first coaching order," he said, assuming an aura of gravitas.

Yuuri gulped. "Yes, Coach Viktor?"

Viktor hobbled over to where Yuuri stood. He used his free hand to gently lift Yuuri's chin. Yuuri's eyes grew even wider than before. "Yuuri," Viktor said tenderly. "Go. Shower. You smell like a locker room."

Yuuri's mouth snapped shut, and there was a moment of fire in his eyes before he jumped back. "Mari made me come up here before I could get cleaned up," he sputtered.

"For which I shall always thank her," said Viktor dryly. "Really, Yuuri, go. I will see you downstairs when you are done. We have much of which to speak."

Yuuri gave Viktor one more look that was half glare, half pleading, then he bolted down the hall. Viktor carefully levered himself over to pick up his other crutch. "Makkachin," Viktor said in Russian, "I have to go ice my knee before it falls off. Tell Yuuri where I am if he comes looking."

Makkachin put his head on his paws and closed his eyes, disregarding Viktor's request.

"And I have to figure out what I'm going to do," Viktor said to himself as he hobbled in the direction of the stairs. For what did he know about being a coach?

It did not matter, Viktor decided as he slowly made his way down the inn's staircase. He would figure it out. After all, he was the best figure skater the world had ever seen.

And he was going to coach Yuuri Katsuki to the top of the podium even if it killed them both.

Viktor spared a thought for the man he had been before the accident. One thing was for sure: he never thought things would turn out like this.

He couldn't wait.

_The beginning._

**Author's Note:**

> so yes the Katsukis spent weeks with Viktor freaking Nikiforov in their banquet room and didn’t tell Yuuri because of course Viktor was there to coach Yuuri when Yuuri came home… why else would he be in Hasetsu with his dog and half his belongings? 
> 
> Arabesque: In dance and in skating, an arabesque is a position in which a dancer/skater stands on one leg with the other leg turned out and extended behind the body. The leg position is used in a skating camel spin.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://mhalachai.tumblr.com/), come by and say hello.


End file.
